He Burns by the River: Colorism, Complexity, and the Power of Story

When I picked up Khalia Moreau's He Burns by the River, I knew I was stepping into Trinidad in the 1960s. What I didn't expect was how deeply the story would hold up a mirror to something we all recognize across the Black diaspora—colorism.

The novel follows two brothers: Danny, the light-skinned golden child who everyone loves and admires, and Roran, his darker-skinned brother who carries the weight of constant comparison, jealousy, and responsibility. When Danny falls ill, Roran becomes both caretaker and rival. It's a story about love and resentment, survival and sacrifice—and how colorism throws its shadow over even the closest family bonds.

Colorism isn't just a Caribbean thing. It's this global wound, this legacy of colonialism that's touched Black communities everywhere. From Port of Spain to New Orleans, from Lagos to London, the preference for lighter skin has shaped opportunities, relationships, and how we see ourselves.

But here's what I love about Khalia's storytelling: she doesn't just leave us sitting in that pain. She shows us that even in that shadow, there's still love. There's still complexity. There's still room for healing. Roran isn't just the jealous brother—he's also loyal, resilient, and determined to save Danny no matter what it costs him.

That's what got to me. Because in our own families and communities, we're doing the same thing—calling out the hurt, naming it for what it is, and slowly but surely reclaiming our beauty in every shade. Stories like this remind us that colorism might try to divide us, but our shared history and our refusal to stop loving ourselves completely? That can bring us back together.

This book is also a reminder of why we need more diverse voices in literature. When writers like Khalia Moreau tell their stories, they're doing more than just entertaining us—they're keeping culture alive, making us question our assumptions, and showing us new ways to understand what it means to be human. Caribbean literature has given us incredible writers like V.S. Naipaul, Jean Rhys, Jamaica Kincaid, and Earl Lovelace. Moreau's carrying on that tradition while making it completely her own.

Reading He Burns by the River had me thinking about my own community—yeah, we've inherited these messed-up hierarchies, but we're also actively working to unlearn them. Every time a book like this ends up in our hands, it's like an invitation to do better, to really see each other, and to celebrate the full spectrum of Blackness.

Next Month's Pick

For October, we're switching gears to something spooky, romantic, and perfect for the season: Blood Moon by Britney S. Lewis. It's a story where love and fear dance together in the shadows—exactly what we need for fall reading.

Reflection Question:

How have you seen colorism show up in your community—and what are some ways you’ve witnessed healing, celebration, or resistance against it?